Chapter 45
forty-five
Dima is making himself busy with the pretty petite stewardess at the back of the plane. The bedroom at the back is nearly soundproof but her porn star worthy moans manage to seep through the carefully crafted walls.
Blyad.
Her moans sound practiced, not authentic.
Images of my sweet wife writhing and moaning beneath me have my body tightening and cock hardening.
Groaning, I release my belt and free my hard cock.
My eyes close as I conjure up a vision of Ava before me on her knees, her emerald eyes shining up at me innocently as she takes my cock in her hot, wet mouth.
I fist my cock, pumping it slowly as I let the fantasy take over.
Fuck.
Ava kisses my cock, swirling her tongue along the smooth wet head. I let out a throaty groan, relishing in the soft feel of her tongue as she flattens it at the base of the tip before her hot delicious mouth engulfs my length.
She sucks and I moan, my eyes closing. Hand burying itself in her ginger curls.
I buck into her mouth as she drops down further, taking more of me into her warm, wet hole.
It takes everything I have not to take control and force her head down until her nose touches my stomach.
Instead, I massage my fingers along her scalp, reveling in the way she preens against my steady action.
Rough, feral sounds escape my throat as she laps at my cock. It isn’t long before she adds her small, delicate hand to the mix. She squeezes the base of my cock roughly, the pressure causing my hips to jerk the tip of my cock further into her mouth as she works the two in tandem.
Pleasure builds, my balls tightening the more aggressive she sucks and strokes. On her knees before me, Ava holds all the power. My hand grasps her hair tighter as I chase the euphoria she is creating inside of me.
Fuck.
Wrenching her hair back, I pull her mouth from my cock. My free hand squeezes her cheeks, forcing her mouth open.
“Stroke me hard until I come,” I growl, her obedience nearly sending me over the edge as she reaches her hand out and strokes my painfully hard member.
It takes just a few strokes of her soft hand to send me barreling over the edge.
I curse, groaning her name as my release spurts over her mouth and cheeks.
Ava is perfect.
A high-pitched scream sends me careening from my fantasy and back to the hellish nightmare of reality. I let my hand fall from my softening cock and take a deep breath. Then I clean myself up and tuck myself away.
When I get my hands on her again, there will be no saving her. I’ll fuck her until we are both too exhausted to go on and the moment she thinks she is free, I’ll do it all over again. She will remember who owns her.
Me.
Ava is mine and the minute I return I will remind her of that fact.
Hinges squeak, the woosh of a door opening alerts me that Dima is finished with his business.
He was only sixteen when he came to me, begging me for a job and a way out of the toilet he called a life.
He was a junkie with only the clothes on his back.
His girlfriend packed up her shit and ran, and his crew got wasted after a raid gone wrong.
Dima was left with nothing, and I helped build him into the man he is today.
Strong. Resilient and a coward when it comes to confronting the woman who sold his crew down the river. Instead of finding her, he buries his dick in easy, disposable pussy. Not the best way to deal with your trauma, but I’m not going to judge him for it.
“I really wish you would stop fucking the stewardesses.” I shake my head and sigh. “Do you know how hard it is to find good ones that keep their mouths shut after the ones you fuck get their heart broken and quit?”
Dima shrugs.
“If it helps, I’ll hire the next one,” he volunteers.
“After this one quits, I’m hiring male ones,” I threaten lightly. “Beefy, male ones.”
Dima crows with laughter; his head thrown back at the absurd threat. “Those are always the most fun to dominate.” The fucker winks at me.
The gall of this kid.
“You could just confront her,” I tell him. “We know where she is.”
Dima sneers. “I have nothing to say to that traitorous bitch.”
The urge to roll my eyes has never been greater. So is the urge to choke this motherfucker. “You may not. But your dick surely does.”
Dima growls.
“Shut it.”
I chuckle. “Did I hit a nerve?”
The glare my enforcer sends me is enough to reduce a grown man to tears. Luckily, I happen to be immune to his charms.
“We should be landing in half an hour, sir,” Stephanie, the stewardess, smiles coyly, batting her fake eyelashes at me.
Any appeal she might have held washes away with her desperateness.
“If you need anything before we land please let me know. I’m happy to assist.” Another bat of her fake lashes, another teasing grin as her eyes roam my body.
“Your resignation will do.”
Dima coughs, the vodka he just sipped spewing over his lap.
“I’m…sorry?” Stephanie’s face twists into a state of confusion and panic, her eyes widening as her drawn on eyebrows bury themselves in her hairline.
“This will be your last flight with us,” I snap, handing Dima my handkerchief. “I employ you as a stewardess. Not a whore. Fucking Dima is one thing. Blatantly hitting on a man you know is married, is another. Seek employment elsewhere, Miss Wise. It’ll be in your best interest.”
Her red lips wobble uncertainly, her pleading eyes darting to Dima hoping he will save her.
He won’t.
With a subtle shake of his head, he turns his attention away from his latest conquest and onto the screen in front of him.
“You were shitty lay anyway,” she sneers at Dima and stalks toward the front of the plane, her heels stomping against the plane’s lush carpet.
Dima cackles delightedly once she is out of sight. I run a hand down my face and give a frustrated sigh.
“Male fucking stewards,” I mumble, which just causes Dima to crow louder. “Stop fucking laughing, Svoloch’ and tell me what the fuck we’re looking at when we land.”
“Okay. Okay.” Dima’s laugh settles, and he straightens his shoulders as he scrolls through the data Mark sent over about Kirill. “Looks like he took over the old Pakhan’s house on Old Queen Street. It’s a luxury townhome, built in 1775, Georgian style architecture, five bed—”
“Dima,” I snap. “You’re not the house’s real estate agent.”
“Right.” Dima’s cheeks take on an uncharacteristic blush. I am trying to be patient with him since he rarely gets to be point man on anything like this. He is an enforcer, not an intelligence gatherer. This situation is new to him, and I try my best to remind myself of that.
“What’s his schedule like?” I ask. He is frozen, searching through the information Mark provided, his confidence wavering as he tries to find the exact info I want.
“Creature of habit,” Dima informs me. “He rarely deviates from his routines. Leaves for the warehouse every morning at seven in a black Mercedes G-Class with two guards and one driver. No decoy car and no extra security.”
“Bold,” I murmur. Dima nods his head in agreement.
“It’s like he thinks he’s untouchable.”
Kirill would. His ego rivals the greatest cities.
Even as a meager mafia runner, he always walked and talked as if he was a king among men.
A Cesar amongst the Romans. Learning about my father’s heritage explains why he always thought himself better than the men he worked alongside.
How he puffed out his chest and crowed at them, flaunting authority he didn’t have.
Only, he did. It was that no one knew of it and if they did; they didn’t care. It is one thing that constantly made him so angry when I was growing up. He would then take his anger and aggression out on my mother.
“You were right,” Dima admits. “The moment he heard you were dead, he dropped all the extra security measures.”
I smirk.
Kirill is anything if not predictable. It is no surprise that my death lessened his hold on the strenuous security protocols he has in place.
Satisfaction blooms in my chest, knowing I’ve caused all his fear.
How many times has he jumped at the surrounding shadows, believing I hid behind them, ready to strike?
Has his life been fraught with nightmares of his death just as mine was?
No matter.
Soon the bastard will be dead, and I will be free. Justice for my mother and brother will be served, and I can rush home to bury my cock in my wife’s tight cunt.
“What are we going to do about Archer?” Dima asks. “He’s here in the city. Could be coincidence, but I’m thinking we aren’t the only ones who know about Kirill’s dirty laundry.”
Jonathon Archer.
AKA Ivan Tkachenko, my cousin.
Who I thought to be my brother before Mark hit me with Kirill’s true parentage.
I wince at the implication. It means that Roman is not my cousin by blood.
Kasyanov is the surname of the man I knew as my uncle.
There were only a handful of times I’d seen him before Kirill kicked me to the curb.
It wasn’t until I began fighting in the underground that we reconnected.
It was a weary connection, full of distrust and then later filled with disgust when Roman came begging for me to take him in. I was working for Tomas by then as his enforcer. My uncle didn’t want an Italian, Russian hybrid for son. Said his Italian side would make him too soft.
Now he is one of my most ruthless killers.
If his father wasn’t already dead, I would have brought him along to do the honors.
“We might be able to use him,” I surmise as I lean back more comfortably in my seat, crossing an ankle over my knee. “If Kirill really is cheating Andrei of money, he isn’t going to take it lightly. There’s a chance we could use Ivan’s connection to his father while exploiting mine.”
“You gonna tell him you’re related?”
I blow out an amused breath. “I’m pretty sure he already knows from his research. There is no way he would have missed it.”
“True, but looking back, nothing he’s done makes sense,” Dima contemplates as he too gets comfortable. We are landing soon. “He takes on the guise of a deceased FBI agent for years and never once goes after you. Then he suddenly teams up with the Wards? For what?”
“He wanted to use Ava to get the video.” The statement isn’t as confident as I want it to be. “Frame me for Elias’s murder.”
Dima shoots me a skeptical look.
“Really?” he questions. “Because from where I’m sitting, that makes no sense.
Christian’s betrayal of his father was spontaneous.
He didn’t plan it out. Not to mention, he had Mark involved long before he solicited Ava.
Using her was just an excuse. He didn’t need to.
He wanted to. Everything he had Ava do, wasn’t necessary.
Mark could have easily slipped him that information via a secure server without any of us being the wiser.
He chose to use her. The question is—why? ”
I reflect on what he says as Stephanie’s broken voice announces that we are descending into London.
I stare out the window, a sneer painting my lips at the sight of the city below me.
London is a cesspool of the worst crime families.
Boys playing at men. They are reckless here and most of the underground is run by dirty corporations instead of blue-blooded mafia families.
Despicable.
George lands the plane with the same finesse as always, the jolt barely detectable as we hit the runway and coast toward the hangar.
When he powers down the engines and Stephanie releases the staircase, we are off like a shot in the Ferrari F12 Berlinetta I procured several years ago when I was still traveling back and forth from this hellhole.
The Ferrari weaves through London traffic, handling like a wet dream.
I think about having it shipped to the states just so I can fuck Ava in it.
The machine has power and I customized the interior from Ferrari’s standard nude leather to black, adding in hand stitched red thread to compliment the exterior.
This Ferrari isn’t just built for speed, it was made to be street legal until the city limits fade away and you can let loose.
I bought it for the aerodynamic design. The engineers structured the car so well that air seems to slip right down the flanks of the car making for smoother turns and transitions.
The yellow coated attendants outside the car whistle as we pull up to the valet of the Savoy hotel. A place, I am told, where Guccio Gucci once worked as a baggage porter. I toss my keys to the one attendant who isn’t vying to get to my car and hand him a two-hundred-dollar tip.
“Not a scratch,” I threaten. “Or I break fingers.”
The boy audibly gulps, his carotid visibly pulsing as he swallows hard and nods emphatically. I pat his cheek and then make my way through the hotel doors with my bag in hand.
“Welcome.” The woman at the front desk smiles broadly at us, her eyes shining as she takes in our expensive suits and polished demeanor. “Can I get your name for the reservation?”
“Pavel Kasyanov.” I give her my dead uncle’s name. Using my own means showing my hand and I’m not ready for that. Not yet.
“Oh yes,” The woman’s smile brightens even further. “You’re in our River View Suite. Here are your cards.” She hands me the small envelope containing our room keys. “I can show you to your room if you like.”
Jesus.
The woman’s eyes are hooded, pupils blown open with lust as she gazes up at me from underneath her lashes.
It is bold and brazen. At one point I would have taken up her offer and brought her up, fucked her, then dismissed her.
But not anymore. The only woman who makes my cock twitch is currently mourning my death on the other side of the world.
“Well…” Dima smirks and moves to push past me, but I am not having it.
“You just fucked our stewardess,” I remind him watching the woman’s face fall in disgust. “I think your dick needs some recovery time first.”
“But…”
“Nyet,” I hiss before dragging him along after me. “Stop acting like a boy and thinking with your damn dick before I castrate you to solve the problem.”
Dima doesn’t say anything, but it is hard to miss the pull of his lips.
Fucker is messing with me.
“Come,” my voice is less harsh as we step into the elevator. “We have work to do.”